


A Flower Picked Too Soon

by JamesLazy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesLazy/pseuds/JamesLazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kris misses Marc. He really fucking misses Marc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flower Picked Too Soon

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is to be honest. I just started writing, and it happened. I liked it towards the beginning, but towards the end I was kind of like, "Ew, what did I turn this into?" But, oh well. I'm posting it anyway because, why not? I hope you enjoy, and if you cry easily, tissues are recommended. Sorry for any typos in advance. x

Kris doesn't remember getting out of bed. He doesn't remember sliding his shoes on or leaving his house. He doesn't remember getting in his car and driving to the other side of Pittsburgh in complete silence, the radio remaining off instead of giving it's usual company. 

He drove mindlessly, barley stopping at stop signs and traffic lights. He was lucky there weren't any cops around, or that many people on the road. It was three in the morning, after all. He finally let his car rest when he saw his second home come into view. He ripped out his keys and the air fell silent as he stared at the dark, vacant house through his windshield secretly hoping in his mind that one of the lights would flick on if he stared long enough. 

Kris's limbs must have minds of their own tonight, because he doesn't remember getting out of his car and walking up the familiar walkway. His eyes are glued to the black wooden front door that held so many memories behind it, so memories _on_ it for hell's sake, Kris thinks as he stares at the dent that was made when Duper threw a Frisbee too hard. 

Kris doesn't realize his hands are shaking until he tries to pull his keys out of his pocket. He gets them free easily enough, but it takes him a few tries to pick out the correct key from his ring of six. His fingers just won't work with him; they pinch the cold metal but he was shaking so bad it rattles free within seconds. 

It's another battle trying to get the key into the lock; two minutes later he has success and he places his hand on the knob, but can't get himself to turn it. He argues with himself in his mind for what seems like hours before he shoves the door open with a helpless whine and rushes inside, slamming it behind him.

The sound echo's in the quiet house. It's dark, pitch black, Kris can't see anything. He feels the wall to his right for the light switch his knows is there; when he finds it, his heart sinks in his chest. 

Everything is the same. His shoes are still messily lined up by the door, framed pictures of him and Kris, Sidney, Geno, Max, and many other Penguins past and present lined his main hallway. Slowly shuffling forward, Kris peaks his head in the living room and can see where he had left a blanket crumpled up on the couch, a glass of water that was half full on the coffee table with a TV and xBox remote placed next to it.

Kris swallowed thickly, his eyes glued to the balled up blanket. His feet moved forward on their own and the blanket got closer and closer until he was leaning over to pick it up in his hands. He clutched the fabric with white knuckles; he could see him sitting on the couch after practice, wrapped up in this blanket like always with a xBox controller in hand. It was his afternoon routine, basically. He'd come home, take off his shoes in the foyer, go upstairs to shower, come back down in sweats and some ratty old t-shirt, grab a snack in the kitchen and then come into the living room to verse him or Beau on xBox live. 

Kris saw liquid being soaked up by the pale yellow fabric; he was momentarily confused until he realized there were tears dripping off his cheeks and nose. He choked down a sob, shoving his face into the blanket and inhaling deeply, taking in his scent. Fiji body wash with a hint of some cologne he had to buy online because they only sold it at this fancy ass store in Montreal. Kris always chirped him for it. He missed the smell.

The house got silent. It was silent before, but it was _silent_ now. Kris couldn't hear anything. Not the slightest hum, not himself breathing, not the wind howling outside. Dead silence. 

Kris threw the blanket onto the couch and ran out of the living room, screaming his name at the top of his lungs as he tore through the house like a tornado. He started in the kitchen; ripping plates and cups from their places in cabinets and throwing them carelessly to the floor, where they shattered to pieces. He threw boxes of granola bars and pop tarts from the pantry, water and Gatorade bottles, anything that stood in his way.

He did this in every room, the bathrooms, the guest room, the living room, where he purposely avoided the glass of water, until he got to his bed room. That's when he came to a surprising halt at the door, staring in like if he took one more step, he'd be shot. His eyes were glued to the king sized bed in the middle; there should be a figure sleeping in it, but there wasn't. It was flat. Flat like his line back at the hospital. 

Kris shakily walked over to the bed, his knees giving out just as he got to it. He collapsed face first into the mattress, fisted and clawed at the covers and let out the loudest scream he could. He screamed and he _screamed_ , sometimes it came out as a word, usually “Why?” or his name.

“Why won't you answer me?” he screamed, sitting up on the bed and looking around the room like someone else was there. “I know you can hear me you fucking dick! Why won't you answer me!”

No one responded to him; the only sound Kris could hear was his own voice rebounding off the quiet walls. He didn't know what to do with himself; after feeling nothing for three weeks he was suddenly feeling everything at once; anger, depression, hurt, grief, it all smacked into him like a truck. He wanted to yell at someone, scream that it was all their fault that his best friend got taken away from him but he knew there was really no culprit. It was a freak accident that no one saw coming.

Sniffling and choking on his sobs, he managed to have enough strength to walk over to his closet and open it; it was immediately hit with his smell; the scent burned his nostrils and made his eyes overflow even more. His fingers padded through the hangers, passing by familiar looking t-shirts and sweaters, until he finally found what he was looking for. 

Kris pulled the sweatshirt off the hanger and held it with tight fists. He stared down at it through his blurry vision, just making out the bold white letters of _PENGUINS HOCKEY_ written around their logo on the chest of it. Then, a little lower, under the word hockey, was a white _29_ to match. Kris hugged the sweatshirt to his chest, like he was actually hugging him. With his scent so strong and the fabric in his hands, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine Marc hugging him back. But in reality, there was a body missing in his arms, the sweatshirt just rolling up in his hands. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Kris was pulling the sweatshirt over his head, stuffing his arms through the sleeves and adjusting it on his torso. It was a little big on him, but mostly fit, the end reaching the top of his thighs and the sleeves ending in the middle of his palms. 

Kris knew he wasn't leaving, he was spending the rest of the night here, he would spend every night here if he was allowed, waiting for Marc to come home even though he knew he was never going too. He turned slightly to look at the wide bed he was just lying on; it looked so warm and comforting, but the thought of sleeping where _Marc_ should be, where he should be snoring lightly with his eyes gently fluttered shut and his hair falling in his face, with one hand under the pillow and the other tucked under his cheek as he turned on his side.

Kris walked past the bed and instead sat in the corner next to it. He curled himself into a ball, bringing his knees up to his chest while his hands disappeared into the sweatshirt's sleeves. His arms wrapped themselves around him, his hands tucking under his armpits. His head gently thumped against the wall as he stared into the quiet bedroom; it was filled with furniture, still had some socks and shirts on the floor, it had life. But it was empty.

Just like Kris. 

 

 

Kris feels hands on him, shaking him, so his eyes shoot open in alarm. When his eyes finally adjust and focus to the morning sunlight blaring through the window, he can see Sidney's face kneeling in front of him, his hands placed gently on his shoulders. He then looks behind Sidney, and he remembers where he is. His eyes become watery almost instantly. 

“You scared me, Kris.” Sidney says to him, his voice quiet, like he's speaking to a scared animal. “You scared all of us.”

Kris was confused. It must have shown, because soon Sid was saying, “You didn't show up for practice, and you weren't answering your phone. Duper went to your house and you weren't there. We thought something happened to you.” 

A guilty feeling blossomed in Kris's chest; with everything that happened in the past month, the team has been on edge about everyone and everything. They double checked on each other, made sure one another got home safely, always got paranoid when someone showed up late to practice without a warning. With Marc's accident, they began to realize that none of them knew when the last goodbye was going to be, and that scared them shitless.

“I'm sorry.” Kris tried to say, but his voice is so shot from screaming the night before, it comes out squeaky and hoarse. His throat feels torn up and burned, his eyes sting from crying, his body feels so weak and he's just _tired_. 

Sidney smiled softly and cupped Kris's cheek with his hand, his thumb brushing away a tear. “It's okay, don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're safe.” 

“How did you find me?” Kris whispers, lowering his eyes from his Captain's.

Sidney moves his hand from his cheek to his knee and is quiet for a moment. Without looking up, Kris can almost see the twisted look on his face, the same one he makes when he's faced with a tough media question. 

“I just had a feeling.” Sidney says quietly. 

They fall into silence then. Kris wraps his arms tighter around himself, like he's protecting himself from something, and brings his knees closer to his chest. Sidney notices and is pretty sure he read a book on this once, how depressed people tend to try and make themselves smaller, hide from the world; but he ignores his racing mind and Kris's actions. Kris isn't depressed, at least, he's hoping he's not. They all miss Marc terribly, and it's only been three weeks. That's not even scratching the surface of enough time to heal. 

Kris makes a noise that sounds like words and Sidney's head snaps up and out of his thoughts, “Sorry, what did you say?” he asked, voice small. 

“I miss him.” Kris squeaks, his lips quivering and his eyes quickly overflowing. Tears leave wet trails on his skin as they race down his cheeks, dripping onto the black sweatshirt he cocooned himself in. “I miss him so much, Sidney. It hurts.”

Kris's voice, what's left of it, is shaky and breaking on his words. His face looked so defeated and lost, and with his hair falling in his eyes, almost childish. Sidney could feel a lump forming in his own throat and that familiar hot feeling burning behind his eyes. He got beside Kris and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, bringing him close into his side. Kris's head falls limply onto his shoulder, his hair hiding his face completely, but Sidney can feeling his body shaking and his shirt quickly becoming damp. 

Sidney's lets his head rest on top of Kris's, “I know,” he breathes, shutting his eyes just as a few tears run loose. “I miss him too.”

They stay like that, huddled in the corner of Marc's bedroom, for another hour. They don't move or speak, just sit there and hold each other; Kris holding onto Sidney for comfort, and Sidney holding onto Kris just too keep him together. The only time Sidney takes an arm off of Kris to text a worried Duper who's blowing up his phone, asking if he found Kris and if he's okay.

 **I got him,** he texts back. **Don't worry. Tell the others for me.**

It's another twenty minutes of silence, minus Sidney's sniffles and Kris's choked sobs, before Sidney hears Kris's broken voice muttering something. He can't understand at first and he thinks it's because he's mumbling, but then he realizes that he's speaking french.

“ _S'il vous plaît revenir,_ ” Kris says mindlessly into Sid's shoulder. “ _S'il vous plaît revenir._ ”

Sidney didn't know much French, but he knew enough to understand what Kris was saying, and his friend's heartbreak was enough to make fresh tears come to his eyes.

_Please come back._

 

The next time the Penguins play the Flyers, it's so tense it gives Kris the shivers. It's his third game back since the accident happened, and because the world hates him, it's against the Flyers. He wasn't mad at them, wasn't mad at _him_ , he knew it wasn't his fault and he felt God awful about it, but that feeling was still there and it was going to burn twice as hard when he came face to face with the person who took his best friend away from him, accident or not.

 

“You don't have to play tonight if you don't want too.” Sidney says quietly enough for just the two of them to hear it. It was just before warmups and everyone was getting the finishing touches on their gear, last minute sock taping and what not. 

Kris takes a deep breath and shakes his head, “I'll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Kris says with a dull chuckle, “But... I can't avoid him forever. And I know he didn't do it on purpose. God knows how he feels about it.” 

Sidney nods and looks to the floor for a moment, then back to Kris. “Just let me know if you feel like you need a break. It's completely okay if you need one.” he pauses as Kris nods, then adds, “And when you see him, go easy on him. Like you said, he didn't do it on purpose and it was his skate that caused it. I don't get how he's even playing, I don't think I would be able too if that happened to me.”

Kris doesn't say anything, just nods. Then it's time for warm ups.

 

Kris doesn't make contact with him until the middle of second period. The puck is behind their goal and Kris had the nose of his stick on it when he was suddenly checked from the front. He didn't fall, but slammed against the boards hard enough to wince. At first he thought nothing of it, it was just part of the game and something he's felt millions of times before; until he saw who it was.

Something inside of him snapped. He tried to go against it, but the feeling was too strong; his gloves were off his hands in seconds, his hands white knuckling the orange jersey. Kris had already gotten two punches in by the time _he_ finally got his gloves off, but once he looked up and saw that it was Kris who was fighting him, the anger in his face drained and was replaced by heavy guilt and fear. His hands dropped to his sides, showing no signs of fighting back. He winced when Kris's fist connected with his cheek again, and kept his eyes shut waiting for the next blow.

He waited, but it never came. Soon he felt Kris's hands untangling themselves from his jersey, and the roaring crowd become oddly quiet. He peaks his eyes open slowly at first, then fully when he sees Kris just standing there in front of him with his hands by his sides and an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Why'd you stop?” he asks, realizing that his voice is shaking along with the rest of his body. “I wasn't going to- I deserve it.” 

Those three words, _I deserve it_ , make Kris frown. “No, Claude, you don't.” he says quietly, “You don't. You don't. I'm- I'm sorry.”

Claude looks at Kris like he was speaking gibberish. The whole arena had gone silent, everyone watching them; the players on the ice and the bench, the fans, even the refs. 

“ _You're_ sorry?” Claude replies shakily, almost a whimper.

Kris just nods, looking to Pittsburgh's cage, then back at Claude. “Fighting you, punching you, rather, wouldn't be right. It isn't right.” he explains, “It wasn't your fault. And it's not what he would want me to do. So... I'm sorry.”

Claude still stares at him like he doesn't understand the words coming from Kris's mouth. One ref goes to skate forward and tell them they need to continue the game, but Sidney stops him. They needed this. They all needed this, it was going to come to a head eventually. 

“You...” Claude starts but his voice breaks. He tries again. “You realize what I did, right?”

“You didn't do anything-” Kris tries to tell him, but Claude cuts him off.

“No, don't fucking say that.” he hisses, “I'm sick of people telling me that. That I didn't do anything. Acting like I didn't fucking _kill_ someone. That I didn't kill a teammate, a best friend, a son. That I didn't break the hearts of millions.”

“But you didn't, Claude. You didn't kill him.”

“Yes I did, Kris!” he shouts, “It was _my_ skate. _My_ skate slit his throat. _My_ skate caused him to bleed out. _My_ skate killed him. _I_ killed him.” Claude rambles as his eye start to leak tears he can't help. “He's dead because of me and I'm so fucking sorry.” he chokes out, trying to swallow a sob. “I didn't mean it. Honestly, I didn't mean it. As much as I say I hate you and Sidney and everyone else on your team, I don't. I would never do something like this on purpose, I would never wish something like this on your team and now that I'm the one responsible for it I have this sick feeling in my stomach every day and I, I just-” Claude finally stops his word vomiting and brings hand to his face, rubbing it roughly. “I don't know.”

Kris never thought he'd feel bad for Claude Giroux, he never thought he would feel anything for the man besides hatred. But as he watched the Flyers' Captain fall to pieces in front him, in front of his own team, and the Penguins' fans who can be brutal, his heart felt a new kind of ache. He skated closer to Claude until he could put his hand on the ginger's shoulder.

“ _Claude, Ça va,_ ” he spoke in French. “ _Calmez-vous._ ”

“ _Je suis désolé, Kris. Je suis vraiment désolé._ ” Claude shook his head, hiccuping.

Kris briefly looked around at all the staring fans, then at the players who all looked either upset or apologetic, some both. When he looked at the refs, they nodded, and he knew the game had to continue, but Claude was in no shape to play. At least not at the moment. 

He squeezed Claude's shoulder, “ _Patinez sur le banc. Mon banc._ ”

Claude didn't say anything in return this time. He turned and started to skate toward the silent Penguin bench, Kris following behind him. As they skated by Sidney, Kris felt a pat on his shoulder. When he looked back, Sidney was giving him a soft smile with a gentle nod. He was proud of him.

Then players, Penguins and Flyers, started to tap their sticks on the ice, against the side of the benches. The fans quickly followed, and the CONSOL was quickly erupting into applause and cheering. Fucking _Pierre_ was clapping in his spot between the benches. And... Kris understood. He understood the message the hockey world was giving him, giving Claude even if he didn't realize, and for the first time in months, Kris finally felt at peace with himself. 

As he followed Claude down the tunnel, his mind scrambling to prepare for the awkward but much needed talk they were going to have, Kris felt pride in himself. Sidney was proud of him. His team was proud of him. Pittsburgh was proud of him. 

Kris looked at the giant mural of Marc painted on the tunnel's wall in his memory as he passed by. For the first time, he didn't tear up looking at it. He smiled. He smiled and gave him the slightest nod.

Hopefully, somewhere in the clouds, Marc was proud of him too.

**Author's Note:**

> Knock on wood something like this never happens to my precious little Flower. Also, I have a soft spot for Giroux (I know, I know, I'm sorry. But... ginger), so you might see him popping up in a few of my stories. Whoops. :) Thanks for any kudos/comments you leave, they mean a lot.


End file.
